


silent night? haha you wish

by sclerant (rufusrant)



Series: the hot mess [2]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, First Christmas, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Modern AU, as a four, mclennon are the captains of starrison, paul imparts his ~wisdom~
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-22 23:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17069240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/pseuds/sclerant
Summary: two weeks after the drunk tattoos:awkwardness and insecurity enter George and Ringo's new relationship. Paul and his super-ego step in to try and save things in time for Christmas. things go tERRIBLY.meanwhile, John attempts to make Christmas cookies.





	1. john tries his best

**Author's Note:**

> hi there!
> 
> first off, I recommend only reading this after [another pint!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16645682/chapters/39027269) because this is a sequel to that. 
> 
> the whole reason for this is because i'm a sucker for both christmas fluff-times and "everything's going terribly" christmas AUs. 
> 
> enjoy! <3

5 days before Christmas

 

_"On the first day of Christmas-"_

"My true love burnt the entire flat down."

"That's not the lyrics, Macca!" John throws a flour-soaked towel on their flour-soaked counter. "I'll have you know I burnt _one_ thing, and that was cookies. Your precious oven and _husband-"_ John says matter-of-factly "-survived."

Paul sighs. John's up to his arms in cookie dough, nose dusted with flour. His phone lies nearby with a pastry website on, screen blurred with white fingerprints. He zooms in on his recipe and turns to check the oven.

John grins. "Definitely right temp this time."

"Good." Paul huffs into his tea.

The front door opens. George and Ringo, sopping head to toe from evening rain, burst through.

"Hey, you two," says John, obliviously slamming the oven door shut. "How was the movie?"

"Absolute rubbish." Ringo groans. 

"I dunno." says George. "I wasn't paying attention."

John raises an eyebrow at him. He dusts his hands off and reaches for a mug. 

"How come cookies aren't done yet?"

"Second batch, Geo."

"Where's the first?"

"They, uh, set off the smoke alarm, so I had to toss 'em." 

 _"All_ of 'em?"

"Go shower," Paul tuts. "You don't wanna be sick during Christmas. Go.”

"Okay, _mum,"_  George slicks his hair back. Ringo chuckles when George takes his hand, heading away, and the second a door clicks John spits all over the counter.

"Sweet _Jesus,_ John!"

"Did you fuckin' see that?! They went to shower! _Together!_ Oh my god, I'm gonna cry."

"You better clean my fuckin' kitchen!"

"Is that all ya think about? It's happenin' before our very eyes! They'll be mixin' cocktails before we know it!"

 _"Cocktails?!_ Seriously, of all the _-"_

~

"Didja hear something?"

"Eh. Paul's probably mad 'bout all the flour."

Ringo nods. "Thanks for your jacket, by the way."

"No problem." George opens the wardrobe in search of sleep clothes.

"So about the movie..."

"Yeah?"

"What _were_ you paying attention to?"

George simply smiles. "Something else." He gathers his clothes and leaves.

Ringo smiles back. He emerges from the shower later, to Paul attacking John and the baking tools with wet rags and soap. George's sitting at the barely de-floured counter, eyeing a tray suspiciously. He comes closer.

"The hell's that?"

"The fruits of my labour," John answers from the sink. "C'mon! Try one!"

Ringo looks at George. George smirks, but shakes his head. The misshapen creations on the tray couldn't possibly be Christmas cookies. A clump of gingerbread men, he presumed, were weld in a multiple-headed monster orgy. The ones that had come out separately were so inflated that he has to lean in to find their limbs. The icing on the cookies had either smeared or melted, so the men all bore slasher smiles and runny eyes.

"You'd think for an art student he'd be better at decorating," whispers George.

"Oh, absolutely." Ringo sniffs. "They smell okay though."

"That's 'cause I didn't burn them _this_ time, son!" John, arms and face clean, sits next to George. "Didja try one yet?"

"I had a big dinner." Ringo lies.

"So did I." George adds. "Bought the biggest popcorn they had, too." That was true.

"Suit yourselves." John picks up the orgy clump and offers it to Paul, who just drops his head on the counter. "Aw, c'mon!" 

Paul lifts his head and unleashes his puppy eyes. "Maybe tomorrow? 's pretty late..." 

John's face softens. Then it lights up, and he pushes the tray to the centre of the counter. 

"I nearly burnt the place down for these," he says. "I say we play a game."

"Fuck," mutters George.

"Urp." burps Ringo.

"I'm _not_ playing strip poker in this weather, Johnny." groans Paul.

"Nooooo. Truth or Dare. Whoever backs out first gets a cookie."

"Oh, joy." 

"You first then, Geo, since you're so eager!" John smiles maliciously. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth."

"What were you paying attention to instead of your movie?"

"Um-" Paul sits up suddenly, resting his chin in his hands. He's smiling just like John.

George fixes his gaze on his fidgeting fingers. "My date," he says quickly. "Of course."

John and Paul let out a combined squeal of happiness. Ringo puts his hand on George's. 

"Oh Jesus, that was beautiful." John wipes a fake tear. 

"They grow up so fast," says Paul, mockingly emotional. 

"My go," George puts his hand over Ringo’s. "Paul, truth or dare?"

"Dare."

"I dare you-" George grins, vamp-like "-to crack an egg on your head."

Paul freezes. Ringo and John burst out laughing.

"Y'know, I already bathed.”

"Brilliant!" John pushes the tray over to him. "Which one would ya like? Now, I think that this balloonhead here spent a tad too long in the bake, but- "

Paul grabs the last egg from the carton and smashes it into his forehead. Ringo’s  holding onto George and wheezing with his head down.

"I did it," he whispers calmly, though his eye twitches. "So. Ringo. Truth or dare?"

"Oh, dare." His chin goes up. "Try me." 

"I dare you to kiss George on the lips."

Ringo's stomach drops.

"Fuckin' _hell,_ Paulie," whispers John. 

A sharp lump sticks in Ringo's throat when he feels George tensing up. His eyes drop to his own hand, and then up to George's face, studying where he’d have to put his other hand if they connected their lips. It hadn't happened yet  _of course,_ because two weeks was too much of a rush wasn't it. They'd seen each other naked, but things weren't like that anymore (at least, for the past two weeks). The universal truth was that kissing was sacred. Kissing was special. 

 _And it_ has _been special so far,_ Ringo thinks, _and hell if it can't stay that way_. Their first kiss absolutely, could not happen because of Truth or Dare. Geo would understand- it was a rule of special, and Ringo always respects their rules.

Ringo moves his hand out of George's and takes one of the runny-eyed men. 

The silence is nails on a chalkboard: John seems petrified. Paul's staring expectantly through drips of egg yolk, eyes shifting from George to Ringo.

The gingerbread man crumbles.

"Ah, bugger." says Ringo. 

George stands up with a sharp scrape of stool legs. "I'm going to bed."

"Okay," Ringo responds, still staring right at John and Paul. He tries a smile. The quiet shut of a door comes eventually, but it oddly feels like a cave-in. A crash of a rock barricade.

"What. The _fuck._ Was that." Paul starts. 

"Whaddaya mean?" 

"You know _damn_ well what we mean, Starkey!" John whispers in something like awe. "D'ya know what you just did?"

"I, uh, forfeited?"

"God, no."

"Answer this honestly-" Egg white trails down Paul's nose, but he doesn't make to wipe it. "-have you two kissed yet?"

"Technically, yes."

"Anywhere that isn't the lips doesn't count."

"...no."

John leans forward. "HOW?!"  

"Because we're _new_ to this!"

"So you also _didn't_ shower together, then?"

"Wha-?"

"Stopstopstop," Paul cuts in, and finally wipes some of the egg from his face. "I need this off."

"Okay."

Paul raises a finger. "We talk tomorrow, Ritch. I think you need a little... guidance."

"It _is_ tomorrow," says John, picking up the tray. "It's past midnight."

"He gets the point!" Paul heads for his bedroom. Ringo tilts his head and pops one of the cookie pieces in his mouth. It's a little too thick, but it'll pass. 

"What guidance?" 

"I dunno. But what I _do_ know is that you gotta have a talk-" John pauses to sweep the rest of the cookies into a Tupperware.

"-with George."


	2. ringo takes a dump

4 days before Christmas

 

Ringo eats the rest of the cookie. He wasn't one to get confrontational- not that he wanted their talk to turn into a confrontation. He slides off the stool.

His and George's room is dark. George, illuminated by the hall light, is under the covers, his back to Ringo. Ringo sighs in relief. _Yes,_ they'd talk at breakfast and everything would be peachy. Maybe they'd even head out for tea, just them both, in between rehearsals for the club gig tomorrow, yeah! He moves to cuddle up after getting in, and his fingers stop short of George's back. 

_I'm going to bed._

Ringo's fingers curl in, almost afraid. 

_Ritch, d'ya want some popcorn?_

He gulps, "Geo?"

_D'ya know what you just did?_

"Are you... okay?"

_I think you need a little... guidance-_

_No, thanks._

_Okay then,_ George smiles. _More for me._

Ringo turns and sleeps with his back to George. 

~

Paul finds John curled up in their bed, nose deep in a library cookbook. He presses his head, wrapped in a towel, into John's shoulder. The cookbook goes onto the bedside table. 

"Penny for your thoughts," says John.

"I fucked up."

"Hmm?"

 _"I_ gave Ringo that dare," Paul shifts himself to lie more comfortably. "It's on me."

 _"What's_ on you?"

Paul sighs dramatically. "Geo an' Ritchie! If I'd have known that they hadn't- y'know, _snogged_ \- I wouldn't have given him that fuckin' dare!" 

John moves to hold him. Paul shuts his eyes and settles into the crook of John's neck. "Geo looked so _hurt."_

"D'ya need to give him guidance too?"

"Should I?" 

"I dunno," John's hand finds the fold of the towel and unsticks it. Dark locks, slightly damp, unveil themselves and smooth against his collarbone. "What's that about?"

"Relationship advice."

John's chest heaves in a laughing fit. Paul smacks him. " _What?!"_

"Ya really think- they're vergin' on a split 'cause Ritch wouldn't snog Geo in front of us?'

"I'm not sayin' they're gonna split-" Paul pauses. He hears a door open outside, and footsteps rushing. 

"... but they _might?"_ John tries. 

"Exactly. But they won't-" Paul folds the towel in half "-not if _I_ can help it."

~

At daybreak Ringo wakes up with a sore lower back. He'd been peacefully asleep for a hot second before dashing to the loo and taking the most _painful_ dump he had ever taken. By the time he was done, he was certain that the sun had come up, and that George hadn't moved an inch- face to the wall, no arms and no legs. That had hurt too.

He turns, hand out, and meets the George-shaped dent in the sheets. And it is pouring. The bed is cold. Ringo decides to blame the weather.

~

"Please tell me you didn't use up all the sugar."

"I used up all the sugar."

Paul groans. John chuckles. 

"Wait, where- where's Geo?"

"I sent him to buy more sugar."

"Did he take an umbrella?"

"Damn, I don't think he even took a coat..."

Ringo hasn't moved from the doorway of his room. Something pops into him. He'd go get dressed, grab one of his own jackets to return the favour-

"I'll go get him," says John, striding into view. He pulls his coat on. "Don't eat my toast!"

"Stay safe!"

John grabs two umbrellas and dashes out the front door.  


	3. paul is nosy

4 days before Christmas

 

The toaster goes off. Paul's slippers slap against the floor quickly.

"Ritch?"

Ringo's slumped against the wall. He can literally _feel_ his eyebags. 

"How long have you been standing there?"

Ringo shrugs. Paul's looking him up and down- _spare me, I just got up_ \- Paul's hair is already perfect, makeup all in place. No wonder John fell so hard. 

"I've made tea," his eyes glint, the first sign of danger. "Come and eat."

Ringo stands up and puts a mental brace around himself. The  _guidance_ is due to hit the second he sits at the table. Probably with the jam pot in reach and mugs on their coasters, Paul would give his tea a stir, perhaps retrieve John's toast from the toaster, and then: "So about you and George-"

John's Tupperware of cookies sits in the centre of the table, barely recognisable (the gingerbread orgy had crumbled everywhere). Paul gives it a fleeting glance as he sits. Ringo stands as he pours hot tea into his mug, careful.

"So Ritch-" Ringo sucks in a breath "-didja eat any of these?" He nods at the cookies.

"Just one. Too much flour."

"Really?"

The tea nearly spills over the brim. "Yeah, they're too hard." 

Paul blinks. He's clearly enjoying this. 

"So about you and George."

_There we go._

"I think I've a part to play in all this," he continues. "So firstly... I'm sorry 'bout the dare."

"Oh. It's okay," Ringo says, surprised.

"No, like, I'm _really_ sorry." Paul puts his mug down. "I had no idea. And to show _how_ sorry I am, I'll-"

"It's _fine,_ Paul. I'll talk to Geo."

"But that's the thing! That's where I'm helpin' ya!" Paul slams his hand down on Ringo's. "I'll be your wingman!"

"What the heck? I don't need a _wingman!"_ Ringo would reclaim his hand, but he's genuinely horrified. "An' why _you?"_

"Because I _know_ this stuff," Paul says matter-of-factly. "And I happen to be happily married."

"... John proposed?"

"Oh I wish! But anyway- we've been us long enough to equip me with all them tricks of the trade."

"I don't need a wingman." Ringo takes a drink from his mug. "And FYI, I've had my own fair share of the 'trade'." His free hand makes the air quotes. " 'm not clueless."

"But this is _George,_ Ritchie!" Paul is absolutely delighted. "Your Geo, our precious _baby-"_

The door swings open. "We're ba-ack!~" John sings. "You better not have touched my toast, Macca-"

George follows in with grocery bags on each wrist, face slightly wet. 

Ringo chokes.

~

"That was a _fuck_ ton, son," says John, thumping Ringo on the back. Paul wipes up the tea, sharpish, but without his usual glare of death-by-mess. More of a _knowing_ glance, _godDAMNit,_ Ringo thinks. George had simply dropped the bags and snuck off to smoke by the window.

"He's got it _really_ bad," Paul laughs.

"So? I still don't need a wingman," says Ringo.

John looks at Paul amusedly.

_"Guidance."_

John's mouth forms an 'O'. Under the watchful eye of Paul, he pats Ringo on the shoulder. 

"Good luck," he whispers, barely, and then turns in the direction of the kitchen. "Ey, George! Come an' eat!"

~

Breakfast is cold, too. George keeps his head down, not even looking up to ask for butter. Ringo's mouth won't let him chew. His foot taps a quietly nervous rhythm. Silence refuses to let the four of them sit comfortably- John is the first to point this out.

"Excellent toast, Macca!"

"What?" Paul says, even louder. _"You_ made that toast."

"Oh, did I now?" shouts John. "Better watch out, Princess! I'll be givin' you a run for yer money!"

"Ha! As if! I'm a domestic _god!"_

Ringo lets out a long, silent groan. George rolls his eyes- and Ringo sits up.

As Paul starts (loudly) on John's episode of doing the laundry with dish soap, Ringo leans over his plate. George looks up on cue. 

"Um, hey," stammers Ringo. "Ithinkweneedtotalk."

"What?"

" 'bout last night-"

_"Oh."_

Ringo feels something sinking. He can't look at George's eyes right now.

"I jus' want you to know that, uh, it's not that I don't wanna- y'know."

"No, I _don't_ know." George hisses.

"What I mean to say is- is that I want to, but I- ah shit, am I makin' any sense? Ya see, what I'm sayin' 'ere is that-"

Everything goes quiet. John and Paul have shut up and are staring at them both with greater interest than before. 

George sighs deeply. _"What?"_

"No, no, we're not here," Paul says brightly. "Jus' carry on."

Ringo, foot finding the floor again, looks at George, then at John, at Paul, then at George again.

"Pass the milk." George says, voice low. 


	4. paul's nosiness gets worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *realises it's christmas eve tomorrow where I live* 
> 
> in other words I'll be writing this all day. thank you for all the lovely comments!! they inspire me.

4 days before Christmas

 

Shortly after all the toast is eaten, the whir of the mixer scares the shit out of everyone. Paul runs to the kitchen in midst of tuning his bass, convinced something's exploded. 

"What the _fuck's_ happened-?!"

 _"Language, dear!"_ John yells, cookie batter splattering everything within a  metre. _"Bad energy spoils the dough!"_

Paul dodges a spray of wet dough coming at his head. _"_ FUCK!"

 _"UH-OH,_ _DON'T LET SANTA HEAR YA, MACCA-"_

Ringo rolls his eyes from where he's sitting behind his drums, hunched over a jotter. His foot's still tapping, but it's clearer and clearer. He hums experimentally as Paul cuts in with another shriek of _you better clean this fuckin' kitchen or so help me I will,_ higher and lower, then alternating beats. 

George walks into the room, guitar in hand and fresh unlit cig in his mouth. "We gonna practise or what?" he yells.

John, or maybe Paul yells something incomprehensible over the mixer's whirring. George grunts and plonks himself on the sofa, guitar over his lap. Instead of finding a lighter he folds his arms and shoots the kitchen an impatient look, narrowed eyes and- the occasional foot tap. Ringo's time-keeping habit surfaces. One two, sing a note, and-

John, hair flecked with flour, emerges from the kitchen with a sheepish smirk on his face. Paul follows, miraculously clean.

"Well lads! I've reworked my recipe," he says. "If all goes well, we'll be feastin' on Tuesday."

"Bravo," mutters George. 

"Thas' the spirit! Now let's get this show on the road."

~

They nail their set list for tomorrow, and right after the last number John leaves to pull out a hot new tray of gingerbread. George goes after him. Ringo keeps his head down. A wordless melody from different parts of their set list twist themselves and fill in the gaps of his tap-rhythm. 

He has a go at whistling it. It has quick notes, reminiscent of cinema popcorn, but is undoubtedly tender-soft. It's like George's hand, he thinks- a jab of guilt. They'd been holding hands, something like that, hadn't they, when he threw the game? Ringo shuts his eyes.

"What're you doing?"

Paul's standing over him, drum kit and bass between them. He's tapping his foot too, but not like George. Paul is in a hurry. Ringo's sitting on the jotter, thighs over the edges. He shakes his head.

Paul raises an eyebrow. "Heard you hummin'. "

"Nothin' really, right?"

"Aw c'mon," he says, and Ringo gives him an amused look. "You wrote it or something?"

He nods tentatively. Paul's spied the jotter under his bottom. 

"Let's see it then."

"No thanks."

"That so?" Paul rests his bass against the sofa. "Is it somethin' mean?'

"What? No-"

"Is it 'bout George?"

Ringo sighs.

 _"I knew it!"_  Paul cheers. “Is it finished? D'ya need a bass line?"

"Uh, no- I dunno. I jus' started-"

"Waitwaitwait," Paul leans over the drum before Ringo can protest. "As your wingman, I think-"

"Now where did _that_ come from?"

"I think-" Paul continues "-if we get John on board, we can make a whole song, an' get this!-"

"Ugh, what?"

"We'll perform it _during the gig!_ You'll _serenade_ our Geo in the eyes of the whole club!"

"Sure," Ringo laugh-mutters. "You're off your rocker, Macca! George wouldn't want that."

"Really? Did he tell you?"

"No, but- y'know what he's _like,_ dontcha? Oldest mates an' all?"

Paul nods. Then he leans closer.

"But _maybe_ \- for the sake of romance, keep that in mind- what if that's jus' the thing ya gotta do?"

"...the hell does that mean?"

"Y'know! A surprise! Somethin' unexpected." Paul whispers: "Somethin' that he won't know 'bout till it hits him."

Ringo simply blinks. 

"And you'd be gettin' your song out there," Paul adds enthusiastically. "Two in one! Now ain't it a good idea?"

 _It's a horrible idea_ , Ringo says to his lunch and dinner, _if there’s no split beforehand this'll do the trick._ John smirks at him when he passes by, cooling the gingerbread, and Ringo is all the more convinced. He starts many attempts to talk to George, truly, but it's just not right; something's opened up between them and swallowed all their comfortable silence. George scratches his neck hurriedly and Ringo's legs criss and cross as more of it goes down the drain. 

They don't talk in bed for the second night in a row. Ringo wants to, of course, but George might be asleep. He settles for staring at the back of his head, just in reach. 

John and Paul had snuck their guitars under the counter and pulled him in using the cookies as cover. "Now this," John strums quickly, 'Is C major, opener of all them sappy songs. Whaddaya say?"

" 's more like a 'want-you-back' song, ain't it?" says Paul.

"Oh yeah! Maybe somethin'  _regretful_ , eh, Ritchie? Dark an' depressin'... So! This here is a _minor_ key-"

"George?" Ringo whispers barely into the dark.

George doesn't move. Ringo draws his hand back, and turns over again.


	5. george sulks in the kitchen

3 days before Christmas 

 

It's not snowing, but it should be. Paul wakes up far too early. It's barely morning, far too long till the 6 PM club gig and too early to practise again. 

He goes to the kitchen to get water and is startled: George's sitting at the counter, staring at his phone. All the lights are off. George has earbuds in and is holding his chin in one hand. Paul flips the lightswitch on.

"Hey," George takes out an earbud. "Why're you up?"

"Why're _you?"_

"Couldn't sleep. 's too cold."

"Oh. Didja try wearing a jumper?"

George blinks. He slips the earbud back in. "Not that sort of cold."

_Oh._

Paul finds a glass and sits across George. On his screen is a man cowering in a large red shadow, face frozen in a scream.

"Is that a movie?"

George takes the earbud out again.

"Is that a movie?" Paul repeats.

"Yeah," George sighs. "Ringo said it was absolute rubbish."

The actor is now running across what looks like hedges in a thick field. The shadow is still looming over him, but when Paul leans nearer, it simply looks cut-and-pasted. The actor looks bored.

"And he's not wrong."

Paul chuckles. He reaches for another glass and fills them both. 

"You still haven't said why you're up," says George.

Paul shrugs. "I dreamt that John burnt the flat down."

"Ha." George takes a drink. "Well, at the rate he's going..."

The actor on the screen drops dead in the hedge. George doesn't look up even when Paul pauses the movie.

"I think I better cut to the chase," Paul begins. "How're you and Ritchie?"

George's eyes dart to his phone screen, but he doesn't touch it. "I don't know."

"Has he talked to you?"

"No," George bites his lip. "But also, yeah."

Paul pushes George's glass closer. His own eyes dart to the direction of their room. 

"And y'wanna know something, Paul? I wish he'd jus' tell me that he- he doesn't like me-" 

A tear streams down George's cheek, followed by another. 

"No, that's... wrong," Paul stammers. "He likes you-" 

 _"Then why doesn't he say it?"_  

No other tears follow, but George's voice is mournfully soft even as it breaks. 

~

Ringo only gets up to escape the cold. The flat's too quiet, signature for _John and Paul are gone,_  all too familiar. The last time he'd woken up on the windowsill with a pain in his arse- and said pain in the arse had been a fresh tattoo. _Oh joy._ He types out a text of _where r u_ to John, but doesn't send it. His jotter, pages full of lyrics, lies on the floor. 

 _No more cold,_ Ringo thinks, picking it up. _It's Christmas, damnit! I deserve a miracle!_ He marches into the kitchen-

And George is sulking at the counter, shoving cookie after cookie into his pouting mouth. 

GOD _DAMN_ IT.

"Uhhh."

George turns sharply and immediately huffs. "G'morning to you too, Ringo."

"Yeah, morning," he tries. His brain is mush. No one was allowed to look _that_ cute. 

"John said I could have 'em all," says George, when Ringo's eyes wander to the Tupperware.

"That's... great."

George bites the head off a slasher-smile gingerbread man. "Eh. 's too hard. John used too much flour."

Ringo nearly has a heart attack when George licks the crumbs off his fingers. It had to end right now. If he leapt forward and stole the cookie from George's mouth- with his _own-_

"Ithinkweshouldtalk," he blurts instead.

George stops mid-chew. His hand goes in the Tupperware again. 

"About _what?"_

"The, um, _thing_ that happened two nights ago-"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do!"

"No I don't," insists George, snapping a piece off an overly inflated cookie. "Can you _tell_ me?"

Ringo closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath.

"I think we need to talkaboutmechoosingnottokiss-"

He doesn't hear himself at the end over George's retching.

 


	6. george and ringo argue about mopping the floor

3 days before Christmas and 6 hours to the gig 

 

"No way!"

Paul tips a packet of sugar into his order of Starbucks and sighs. "Yes, way."

"Fuckin' hell," mutters John. "What 'appened next?"

Paul's eyes glint as he lifts his head, complete with the innocent grin. 

"Guidance."

_"Oh."_

_"Different_  guidance."

"Does that mean you didn't offer to be Geo's wingman?"

"Nope. I told him-" Paul delights in John leaning in  "-to turn up the _sexy_ till Ringo simply jus'  _had_  to tell 'im-"

John snorts so loudly their table shakes.  

"Oi,”Paul saves his coffee from spilling. “What?!”

"Lemme get this straight- or _not_ -" Paul snickers at this "-you told him- _to seduce Ritchie?"_

Paul shrugs coyly. He takes a long, deliberate sip from his cup.

"Macca, baby, you little minx!" John applauds. "Ritchie's a dead, dead man."

Speak of the devil, John's phone buzzes and lights up with Ringo's name.

"Oh my god," Paul chuckles. 

John answers the call. "Hey Ritch! Hmm? Yeah, Paulie's here- we're at Starbucks. Ya want a drink or somethin'? We can  _hook you up_ -"

Paul smacks John's hand gently. Unexpectedly, John freezes. He blinks rapidly. 

"...we're on our way." End call. 

"What-?"

"Get your coffee to go. It's George."

~

George refuses to look at Ringo, squeezing his own eyes shut. He buries his face in the wastepaper bin Ringo's procured, and heaves another violent wave as Ringo gets off the phone.

"Okay, I've called John," Ringo says worriedly. "Let's get you to a doctor now, yeah?"

Ringo waits for George to finish. "No," he hacks, and Ringo rushes closer. "Call Eric. Call Eric now."

"What? _Clapton?"_  Then it hits him. "Fuckin' hell Geo, you're gonna be okay-"

"Ringo, _please._ " George's eyes are teary. Ringo swallows the lump in his throat and searches Eric up in his contacts. He makes a grab for the water pitcher as it rings.

 _" 'ello?"_ answers a slurry voice.

"Hey Eric. It's Starkey here."

 _"Oh, hey."_ a yawn. _"Just woke up. You alright?"_

Ringo pushes a glass of water to George. "Um." 

"Ask- if he's free tonight," George whispers. 

"Are ya free tonight?"

 _"Yeah. But last I heard, Starkey, aren't you already taken?"_ A chuckle.

_Son of a-_

"I, uh, can’t discuss that right now," says Ringo. "We have a gig, the Cavern at six, but George's... sick."

_"Aw, shit."_

"Yeah. George's wondering if you can-" Ringo looks at George, still turned away, rubbing at his eyes. A part of his heart breaks.

"Can you fill in?"

A pause. _"Is the gig at six, or is the set-up at six?"_

"Gig's at six. Set-up at five."

_"Okay. I'll be there. Send Geo my best."_

"You're a pal, Eric." The line goes dead. 

George stands up stubbornly and opens the cleaning cupboard. Ringo nearly trips in the sick.

"The hell are you doing?"

"Getting the mop," George says coldly. "Paul's gonna-"

"Pop an artery, yeah, but you sit down. Let me-"

"I'm not a fuckin' weakling."

"I never said you were!"

"Give me the mop."

"No. Sit down."

_"Ringo-"_

Ringo throws his arms around George and thwacks himself in the head with the mop.

"Lemme do this for you," Ringo says, pretending that he hadn’t indeed thwacked himself in the head with the mop. "You're breakin' my heart." 

George scoffs breathily. His arms remain at his sides. "Look who's talkin'."

"It's not that I don't want to kiss you," says Ringo, and George tenses up. "It's jus'.... y'know..."

"What? 'cause my mouth's gonna taste like sick?"

"No! Daft sod! That was a game! And what I feel for you- so _fuckin'_ special- now that  _ain't a game!"_ Ringo shouts, eyes watery. "I thought you'd understand. I tell myself that- that I'd kiss you when the time was right."

George's breathing hitches a little. "...so the time _hasn't_ been right?"

"Uh. That's not what I meant-"

"So why didn't you kiss me then?"

_Abort mission! ABORT MISSION!!_

George tenses up again. "Let go of me."

"No," Ringo holds him tighter, desperate. "I'm never gonna let you go. I know you're feelin' poorly right now, but I love you an' I'll hold you-"

"No dammnit, I need to-"

The front door slams open. George pukes down Ringo's back. 


	7. ringo is lovesick

 

 3 days to Christmas and 2 hours to the gig

 

George camps out near the toilet after returning from the doctor's. John offers to make him something hot as an apology, but is quickly stopped by the sharp ears of Paul. John gets mop duty instead. Ringo, now in fresh clothes, prepares warm water and lines the wastepaper bin with a new plastic bag.

" 'm sorry," George says weakly as Ringo sets it beside him. "I'm really sorry."

"Don't be."

"I didn't want you to see me like that."

Ringo hugs him again. George's wearing a blanket around his shoulders like a shawl, so Ringo's arms settle around his neck, hand in his hair. George reaches back.

"It's okay," but Ringo's mouth lingers on  _I love you._ It's too risky. "D'ya need anything?"

"Hold me." 

Ringo burrows deeper, nose against shoulder. His eyes water again. It's the best warmth. He ignores Paul's (not-so-subtle) beckonings from the hall. In his mind he's moving back, moving his hands to cup George's face, and- _there we go,_ the stuff of dreams. 

 _"Ringo!"_ Paul hisses. 

He pecks George's forehead. "Seeya," he immediately cringes.

 _Seeya?!?!?!_   _What sort of demented-_  

~

Paul pulls him into the kitchen, where John is helping himself to a shot of sherry. The floor is drying, and the Tupperware of cookies- amount of cookies visibly reduced- is closed shut.

"So," says John. "What the _fuck_ are we gonna do without lead guitar?"

"George told me to phone Eric."

"Clapton?" asks Paul. Ringo nods.

"Clever lad," John downs the shot. "Didja tell him our set list?"

"I texted him. He says he knows all of 'em."

"Including _yours?"_

"What? " Ringo blinks. "I thought we agreed that song's secret. Also, it's got no lead lines-"

"No, ya git! _George!"_ Ringo facepalms. John pours himself another shot.

"Ya remember now? Your muse?That song's for him, son. What're ya gonna do if he ain't even _there_ to hear it, eh?" 

"Simple," Ringo says immediately. "We play it for him tomorrow. We're free."

~

They make a stop at Eric's building, and head down to the club. The manager shakes John's hand, yells at waiters to help unload the drum kit from the van, and graciously shows them to a booth complete with complimentary drinks. The dinner crowd starts filing in, and they're presented with Christmas crackers.

"Now we're talkin'!" says John. "Ey Macca, give us a hand-"

Paul pulls the other end of the cracker. It pops, and a red paper hat comes out.

Ringo, deciding then that he'd enjoy himself tonight, takes the hat.

 _"I am now-_ " he declares _"-King O' the Blister Fingers!"_

"Dear me, m'liege!" John swoons, clutching a giggling Paul. The next Christmas cracker produces a green hat, followed by a blue. 

"Eric! _You_ should wear a hat!" Paul says brightly.

Eric guffaws into his juice. "It's alright- thanks, really, but it's alright-"

"Oh, hello!" John picks a stray cracker off the floor. "None of that now-"

"As the _Princess,_ I command it!" 

"That’s a direct order! C'mon, Clapton!"

Eric laughs. He grabs the cracker eagerly and-

A purple hat flies out. Silence spills over the table.

"Y'know what? Hats ain't really my thing," Eric chuckles awkwardly. He slides the hat over to Ringo, who's looked away. "How 'bout we get some dinner, eh?"

~

Dinner (free of charge) is a success. They're on stage at six, hats shoved into bags; coloured lights. Ringo closes his eyes as he settles behind his drums. 

"Good evenin' peoples!" John begins. "We're the Beatles!"

Then they're off- John does a jig as his fingers fly, and the first bars of Chuck Berry fill the club. Ringo twirls his drumsticks once, and lets the music do its work.

John and Paul sidle up to the same mic to sing all the love songs on the set list, and Paul blows kisses at the crowd. Ringo spies Eric rolling his eyes during their first Elvis number- John and Paul's insistent duet- _Can't Help Falling in Love._ Of course. 

The second they're back in their booth for the break, John scoops Paul into his lap and the table jumps. Ringo and Eric politely pretend not to notice.

"So uh," Eric tries as John's hand disappears up Paul's shirt, "that's all of the set, right?"

"Yeah," replies Ringo, getting his phone. It's half-past ten. "Then song requests-"

Paul lets out a moan. The table jumps again.

Ringo rescues his soda. "Do it in the toilets!" 

"Mmm-mmm! Whaddaya say, Macca? You up for a quickie?"

 _"God,_ yes-" 

"God, _no_ , I was kiddin," says Ringo.

"Too late!" John cackles. He peppers Paul’s jaw with sloppy kisses. "When we get back, we're gonna do it all night, mark my words-"

Ringo rolls his eyes. His hand hovers over his phone. Perhaps he could phone George and tell him to prepare earplugs- _perhaps._ And maybe an  _i_ _miss you._ That'd be nice, no? John and Paul did that all the time. _I wrote you a fuckin' song because I fuckin' miss you, you daft sod-_

"Jesus Christ John," Eric splutters. "Is that a-" 

~

Thankfully, the crowd is patient. John emerges from the bathroom, boner-less at last, and takes the stage.

"Sorry abou' that folks. I had one too many sherries-" John lies and causes a ripple of chuckles. He swings his guitar up. "We're gonna take any holiday songs you give us. Who's up?"

Jingle Bell Rock. A fun song, and four waiters recreate Mean Girlsflawlessly, down to the thigh slapping. John and Paul's bedroom eyes resurface _(as if they had even ever disappeared)_ during Baby, It's Cold Outside, and Ringo's edgy outro to Winter Wonderland garners excited dancers.

The music had done its work. There seemed to be even more people than before, all shouting for an encore. 

"Aw, shucks, we didn't prepare an encore-" Paul sighs charmingly “-but for you, anything."

"Some Elvis!" John shouts, giving Paul a knowing look. "Who wants Elvis?" 

Maybe its the heat of the coloured lights, or John kissing Paul in the booth. But probably the limp purple hat in his bag- Ringo wrestles his mic off its stand.

"Actually-"

Everything quietens. Ringo's heart leaps into his throat. 

"I wrote a song," he continues, hands shaky. "I wrote it for someone who... well, somewhere else right now-"

A collective _aww._ John and Paul exchange a look of confusion that turns into a squeal. Eric grins. Ringo fumbles his mic back on. 

"And- to that someone- jus' know that I love you. Yeah.”

It takes ages, but it also happens in the blink of an eye. Ringo counts up a beat, and drums in the intro.

Almost like a plan, guitars join in. John and Paul stand close, but not near their mic. Eric, for the first time tonight, leads the crowd with handclaps. And a dance or two. Ringo smiles in relief. The final song and no one had even minded Eric's presence. None of the kind of people who -and would've-rioted when he'd come in on that day instead of Pete- would find any way to interrupt this gig.

 

He nearly misses a beat there. George, guitar in hand, stormed up and gave one of them cheek. Loudly. Then snap, crack, _barkeep, can I trouble ye for an ice pack?_

A hiss. "Oh my god, am I pressin' too hard?"

"Nonono, put it back on."

"Okay," A pause, then hand onto shoulder. "I'm really sorry."

"Don't be." George's hand reaches back. "You're the greatest."

 

The close, final lyric, and Ringo nails it. The audience stands to cheer, euphoric.  Some couples embrace. They were in love again.

"Thank you, thank you!" John calls.

"We're the Beatles, and Merry Christmas!" says Paul.

They bow. Applause rains from every corner, every table, everyone behind the bar and in the kitchens too.

"The _fuck_ was that!" Eric tackles Ringo as they pack their equipment. "That was _fuckin'_ brilliant."

"Thanks," Ringo heaves a sigh of relief and hugs back. "They loved it." 

"Fuck _yeah,_ " says John. "Christmas miracle?”

"Who cares?” says Paul. "That was jus’ ace."

"That was _amazing,"_ says another voice. The club manager shoves his way in and shakes Ringo's hand with newfound life. "You wrote that?"

Ringo nods. The coloured lights seem blindingly snow white.

"You, son, are a right genius. And with that godly playing-"

"All in a day's work, guv'nor." John pats him on the shoulder. "It's been pleasure doin' business. Happy Christmas."

"No, wait-" the manager pants, and sponges his fat cheek with a handkerchief. "I'd like ta book you boys tomorrow night. And the night after that. In fact, whaddaya say to an _all-day_ show?"

The lights switch off. The club is closing for the night.

"What?" Ringo mutters.

"All day?" Paul pouts. " 'm not sure."

"What's in it for us?" John challenges.

"Free food an' drink, of course! And as for fees-" he leans in and whispers into John's ear. His glasses flash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! X)


	8. ringo's lovesickness gets worse

2 days to Christmas

 

Ringo doesn't speak till Eric's dropped off at his building. 

"You lousy twit."

"I said I was _sorry_ ," John argues, taking an irksome puff of his cig. 

"He's right, y'know." Paul's voice is low. "Why didn't you ask us before you agreed?"

"Aw Macca, don't start-"

"I thought we agreed on a _fuckin_ ' plan!" Ringo shouts. "We play today, an' then tomorrow we'd be free-"

 _“Today._ 's past midnight. _"_

"Shut yer yap! We were supposed to be there for Geo! And now you got us playin' our _arse_  off all the way to Christmas eve! "

" _You_  wanted to be there for Geo!" John shouts back, turning in the driver's seat. "If you'd manned up an' snogged him like ye were supposed to-"

"EYES ON THE FUCKING ROAD!” Paul yells. The front tires jerk, and flinching hands grab the handbrake. The van's hood, though unhurt, kisses the pole of a street sign. 

~

It's freezing by the time John gets the van parked. They leave the instruments in.

John slams the door when he gets out. Ringo trudges behind with heavy steps that soften once they're in the flat- George's left the main light on- and slips into his room.

And George is asleep, face turned to Ringo's side of the bed _finally-_ Ringo supposes he should be glad (he is) and tries to put  _it's just 'cause he's too tired to be cross_  out of his mind. Stripes of light are scattered across the room, one just below his eyes. 

Ringo moves closer. _Beautiful_ eyes. At any state. George's face is half-hidden in the pillow, nose and hands turned to Ringo's side. Ringo crawls over.

"Hey," he whispers. "I'm here."

Ringo leans in to adjust George's blanket- and lays a kiss on the corner of his lips. It's so gentle that it's barely there.

 _But it's there,_ and Ringo lingers on all fours, holding his breath. Snow's falling outside when he looks up.

~

"I'm sorry," says John, facedown on their bed. The library cookbook lies open on the floor. Paul, silent, returns it to the bedside table. 

"I'm sorry," John tries again.

"I _know,_ " Paul smacks his bare shoulder. "Now get up. You tryin' to suffocate?"

"No, no-"

John scoots back to give him room, but doesn't meet his eyes. 

"Are you angry?"

"Yes," Paul sits down. "Ringo trusted us. And in the van-" John's head drops deeper in shame "-you just brought it back."

"Wait, so you're not mad about the- _okaaay."_

"Who said? You coulda killed us all! I'll drive next- and you really shouldn't 'ave brought _that_ back up."

" _And,_ in the first place, given Geo food poisoning," John says sourly. "I feel like shite. I love that lad."

"Mmm."

John sits up suddenly. "D'you still love me?"

Paul blinks. "Yes. Why?"

"You blinked," John slumps defeatedly against the headboard.

"That doesn't mean anything."

"I'm sorry I didn't ask before agreeing to the bloke."

"Oh, John."

"An' it's supposed to be Christmas! More about the givin', less of the money, more about _love_ \- ain't it?"

"C'mere."

"I'm right though," John shifts himself into Paul's arms. "Aren't I?"

"Yes," whispers Paul, kissing John on the lips. "You are."

Snow covers the street in the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel that this is getting too serious compared to [another pint](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16645682/chapters/39027269) . in all honesty this here story spiralled really far from the original first drafts and i wasn't sure whether it was good or bad. 
> 
> but truly, thank you to everyone who's stuck with me and this. you're all lovely <3
> 
> (i think comments are lovely too.)


	9. john's fly is down

2 days to Christmas

 

Ringo has to sleep eventually. He doesn't dare hold George but turns so they're toe to toe,  _that's your side an' this is my side but I wouldn't mind an invasion y'know?_ It's bound to be colder now, snow falling and all. People wear jumpers and layer their socks now when they sleep, and Ringo wants to layer himself with George. 

He's still asleep when Ringo's phone alarm goes off, slightly shifted. He's curled up in the blanket, face fully visible- and is a sight for any sort of eyes. Ringo's feel like lead. It's not even light out,  _thank you, winter,_  and he'd have to phone Eric and tell him they were stopping by soon. Unless-

Ringo traces George's face- with his eyes, mind, dare he disturb a poorly lad's slumber with cold fingers- and lays a careful hand on his forehead. He slips out and fetches an ear thermometer.

"Geo," Ringo shakes him gently. "You have a fever. We gotta cool it."

George stirs. Ringo tucks his legs in and leans closer.

"Wake up, c'mon-"

Ringo's heart throws its veins up in surrender. He kisses George full on the lips, and it's _the stuff of dreams_ indeed _-_  Ringo's all too aware of his nose, never going deeper. But George's lips are unbearably soft. His heart echoes that maddening squeal of John and Paul's-

George's eyes fly open. 

"OHMYGOD," Ringo startles. 

George blinks. 

"I'M- SO SORRY."

George continues blinking.

"...did you kiss me?"

"Uhhh."

George averts his gaze. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip. 

"Yes," Ringo mutters. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean- you're having a fever, see?" The thermometer comes up. "I tried to wake you, but then- then-"

"Mmm?"

"I dunno," He tries putting his hand over George's. "You looked so... gorgeous."

"Do I taste like sick?"

"Wha-?"

George shifts himself. "I was throwin' up all night." 

"Aw, shit. Didn't the meds help?"

"They helped. But I think it's 'cause I overate at dinner."

"Ah."

"So... do I taste like sick?" 

"No, no."

"Okay," George closes his hand around Ringo's. "Can you kiss me again?"

~

"John?  _John!"_

 _"What?!_  I'm on the toilet!"

"Your toast is on fire!"

_"What?!?!?!"_

Paul douses the plate with his tea. The toast sizzles to a crisp. Ringo and George emerge from the room, George still wrapped in his blanket-shawl. He stares at Paul and the charred remains of toast.

"Hi Geo," Paul smiles nonchalantly. "How're you?"

"Better," says George. "Still got a fever, though." He sits. "Ringo says you have to play two all-day shows."

"Oh, yeah," Paul takes a sip out of his empty mug. "Well, ya see-"

" 's okay. I told him," Ringo says as he sits, obviously trying to hide a grin. 

Paul swallows. "That so?"

George nods. "And Eric's good, no?"

"Mmm, but he's got nothin' on you," Ringo says promptly. "Sorry I can't stay 'round today."

"It's fine," George takes Ringo's hand. "You rock good tonight, yeah?"

 _"Macca!"_ John stumbles into the hall. " _The toast-"_

George leans over and kisses Ringo. 

John's mouth gapes. Paul's mug hits the counter. The entire flat stays frozen even after they pull away.

"What?" Ringo asks, turning to look at Paul.

"Oh hi John," George says sweetly. “Your fly's down."

~

"RICHARD STARKEY!"

"Oh, boy."

"I CAN'T BELIEVE- YOU REALLY-"

"So? You an' John do it all the time!"

"This is  _different,_  yeah?" John cuts in. "My  _god,_  the look on your faces-"

"Eh. Since I can't play my song, might as well, right?" Ringo says mockingly. John groans. 

"Okay, seriously," says Paul. "Was it like,  _I gotta have you now_ , or was it all soft-n-lovey? Y'know?"

"The second one."

"OH MY GOD."

"Now Paul, don't cry," John says as they pull up in front of Eric's building. "You'll smudge your mascara."

" _I knowww!_  But they're gonna get married, have babies, start their own little band-"

"Who's gonna have babies and start their own lil' band?" Eric laughs, climbing on board. 

"I'm gonna cry," announces Paul.

"I kissed George."

"God damn!" Eric high-fives him. "Congrats!"

~

Love fever sweeps the entire show. Ringo's thankful for his seat behind the drums because his knees have gone absolutely weak. John and Paul are even worse: they make a break for the toilets the second lunch starts, and don't reappear until Eric runs in and yells that they're on- John ties Paul's jumper around his waist before starting the next song- and Ringo, impatient, drums against every surface he touches till he is sated and beat.  

George texts him pictures of the porridge he'd cooked himself during evening break,  _dont worry i promise not to overeat k, rock on <3 _and Ringo nearly perishes. He poses for pictures with second-timers from their gig yesterday and signs a whole clothes shop worth of shirts. John and Paul are nowhere to be found again. He texts George back with heart emojis.

Eric slides back into the booth. "One of the waitresses gave me her number!" 

"That's great!" says Ringo. "Are ya gonna ask her out?"

"Oh yeah. D'you have any tips?"

"The movies. But let  _her_  pick."

"Got it. Thanks." Eric looks towards the toilets. "Say, are John an' Paul-"

"I'll get 'em, I'll get 'em."

~

Ringo coughs loudly before knocking on the cubicle door. 

"Oi."

"Occupied!" John yells. 

"We're on in five!"

"Wait-" pants Paul. "Almost done-  _oh, god-"_

Ringo rolls his eyes. Perhaps in a bit of anger. Fuck John, fuck Paul  _(oh haha, real funny)-_ Ringo should be at home,  next to George in their bed. They're dressed in cosy jumpers, watching all the movies that George's picked out- 

Ringo lowers his head against the door. "I hate you two." 


	10. ringo sleeps on the floor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy 2019! <3

Christmas Eve, midnight

 

After singing his heart out for their encore song, Ringo excuses himself when the manager invites them into his office for a drink. John and Paul exchange a knowing look. Eric is just excited to get free sherry and cookies.

"My guidance worked so well," Paul sighs, mock-wistful. 

"Yes, dear," John says distractedly. From the window they see Ringo, shoes in the snow, hand out for a cab. 

~

The floor of the flat is cold. George's knuckles rest atop it from where he's sleeping on the sofa, some library book on top of his chest. Ringo removes the book and throws a blanket over him, settling himself into a ball on the cold tile.

"Hey," he whispers. "It's Christmas. Please feel better."

Hands, soft and warm like a snowy day in love, meet. Ringo shuts his eyes. He then leans back into the sofa, on top of the blanket folds.

~

"I swear if they get married before we do..."

"They wouldn't dare. And I'll propose to you soon."

Paul quirks an eyebrow. 

"Unless they propose to each other in the mornin', that is."

"Oh, haha. They just made up from their little tiff, didn't they?" Paul drops the doggie bag of cookies from the manager on the counter. "Can you get a container for these?"

 

~

"Ringo?"

"...mmm?"

"You're on the floor."

"...mmmm."

"It's freezin'."

Ringo has pins and needles. His head weighs a ton. "Yeah."

George's sleepy, pretty face smiles at him. This is a fuckin' Christmas miracle.

"Uhhh... Merry Christmas?"

"That's tomorrow."

Ringo has to close his eyes.

"C'mon, get off the floor-" George reaches over. "Have ya been there all night?"

"I've been here ages."

"Damn." George tucks in his legs. "Y'know that movie we saw? I watched it again."

Ringo gets on the sofa. "On yer phone?"

"Yeah. Absolute _rubbish_."

"I know, right?! You're picking the next movie."

"Of course," says George. Ringo leans up and pecks his lips. Heaven and peace reign on Earth. 

"Finally the right time, eh?"

"Oh, Geo."

"What? I thought I was doin' somethin' wrong."

 _"Thinkin_ ' somethin' wrong- why'd you ever think I didn't like you? I was startin' to think you didn't like _me_ no more!"

"Um... _fuckin'_ Truth or Dare. I hate that bloody game... " 

"Ughhh. Me too."

They exchange a look.

"Whaddaya say we dare John to egg Paul or somethin' next time?"

"Oh,  _yes."_

~

For the first time in the history of forever, John wakes earlier than Paul does and flips the entire flat upside-down in search of his library cookbook. Paul decides he's too sleepy to deal with John's shit this early. 

"I _swear,_ Macca, it was here-"

 "Uhhh."

"Bugger, was I sleep-readin' again? Goddamnit."

Paul slips out of bed and limps into the kitchen. He puts salt in his tea and son of a _bitch,_ they are out of bread. And cornflakes _(AGAIN?!?!?!)_. And oatmeal. And which _arse_ left the empty boxes in the cabinet? Three guesses. 

" _JOHNNNNNNN!"_

_"WhaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAt?!?"_

"I thought I told you not to leave empty shite in the cabinet, you fuckin' sop!"

An incomprehensible grunt. Paul chucks them in the trash. Three identical Tupperwares of cookies stare at him from the counter. He then spits out his salty tea.

"MotherFUCKer-"

~

"Hey Paul, we're out of bread," announces Ringo, suddenly appearing.

"JESUSCHRIST! HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN STANDIN' THERE?!"

Ringo shrugs. "Did John bake cookies again?"

Paul blinks, then turns to the tea-splattered Tupperwares. "Oh, no, they're from the Cavern-"

"Hey Paul, we're out of bread," says George, also suddenly appearing. Paul feels he may bust a blood vessel.

"D'ya want leftover porridge? I made it." 

Ringo giggles, but gapes when George puts his jacket on after breakfast and gets in the van.

"...you're playin'?" 

"Then you're missin' your guitar, mate," John takes a puff of his cig.

"Actually, I was jus' hoping to see the show," George smiles. "See how Eric's doin' and all..."

John gives Ringo a brief knowing look of pure joy. But Ringo's throat is dry. It's so dry, all the snow around him starts melting because of the dryness. They'd have to play _that_ song. _That_   'want-you-back' song for something he never actually lost. _That_ song for their audience, probably tripled by tonight purely because of _that_ song; _that_ song for George. 

 _That_ song in front of George and half of London is a horrible idea. The end of the world can rear its head now. _If there’s no split_ _because of Fuckin' Truth or Dare this would do the trick._

"Uh..."

"Less droolin', loverboy! Get in!" John laughs. He slides into the passenger seat. 

 _For the sake of romance,_ says Paul, annoyingly superior- _BUT I HAVE THAT ALREADY,_ Ringo think-screams. Pins and needles prick him harder. Maybe they could get away with Lennon-McCartney’s Elvis eyefuck show instead. Everyone liked Elvis, no? Anything but _that_ song. He could grovel at the manager's huge feet after they were done. 

Paul emerges from the building entrance, snacking furiously from a Tupperware of cookies. Ringo stares. John lowers the van window. 

"Darling," John pouts. "Those from the Cavern?"

"Of fuckin' course," says Paul. George laughs.

~

Ringo blames his dizziness on the break-up headed his way. This wasn't fair. John and Paul dig up their Christmas cracker hats, and Eric hugs George tight. Ringo downs complimentary drink after complimentary drink, but it doesn't shake the dry-sand feeling in his throat. The sand spikes and cactuses sprout out of it when they break for dinner.

"So," says John, "I was thinkin' we start with the duet first thing after this."

Paul bursts into giggles. George and Ringo exchange a look. _They are so-_

"Actually," Eric pipes up, "why don't we start with- ah- hey Ringo, I've never actually heard you name that song-"

Ringo spills his soda all over the table. 

"Oi! Watch it!" John says sharply.

"Shit, sorry, I-"

"I'll get tissues," says George, standing up.

"Oop," says Eric. "Alright, Ritch?"

"Uh. Yeah-"

Paul lets out a sudden burp. "Scuse me."

"Eric," Ringo stammers. "I don't- I don't think we should, um... play _that_ song-"

George returns with a handful of serviettes- and a new can of soda. Ringo's chest starts hurting. 

"Lookit that! Aren't you just the sweetest sweetheart, Geo!" John jokes, winking at Ringo. "Such a lucky lad."

Paul and Eric _aww._ George's cheeks turn pink. Ringo feels absolutely horrible. "I need the loo," he announces, and scrambles out of the booth.

"Good god, me too," Paul groans, clambering over John's lap. 

Ringo leans over the sink, forehead clammy against the mirror. If a club patron walked in and saw him he'd pass easily for a little case of stage fright. Paul stumbles in instead, and the lock clicks. George comes to mind- John comes to mind- Eric comes to mind; chatting up his waitress, asking if she'd fancy a midnight screening after the show.  

Paul and his infuriating guidance. He waves his hand and his invisble ring, _tricks-of-the-trade,_ blah blah blah. Paul's coughing a little now in the cubicle, barely, over the running tap. Everything and everywhere is solid cold- but Ringo feels so _warm._  

 _It's Christmas,_   _and_ _baby_   _is it_ cold _outside- keep everythin' indoors-_ John advises the audience. He whistles as they laugh. _First Christmas away from Liverpool, lads!_

Ringo turns on the tap and wets his hands. Fingers press against his cheek.

 _Christmas is so commercialised,_ George mutters as they walk to the cinema. He has no jacket on. _Holidays are supposed to be about... being there. Not exactly at home, but,_ y'know, _Ritch?_

_Yeah, I do._

_I knew you would._ A smile. _So what's, uh, that movie you wanna see again?_

Ringo blinks back the burning in his eyes. His hands and arse find the floor-


	11. paul uses his phone in the loo

"What in _God's_ name-"

"John! Shush!"

"You can't tell me to shush! You're younger than me!"

"Fuck off," George hisses. _"Move."_

~

Eric has hold of Ringo's legs, guitar strapped to his back. He's lying down on the hard bench of the booth. The coloured lights above are snow-white again, but everything else is black. His head's pounding- _drums on the brain, eh?_ The sand in his throat is whirled in a storm. 

"Ringo," comes a voice. "Can you hear me?"

Oh shit. It's George. George, who is so beautiful that he shouldn't have to see the likes of Ringo whose forehead and nose are in a sweaty mess. His eyes are half-open and twitchy because of light, and oh yes, does he feel like _shit._

"..fuck."

"We called for help," George says calmly. "But what I wanna know is, why didn't _you_ ask for help?"

"Huh?" He brings up a hand to shield his eyes. 

"You had- you're havin' a _bloody_ high fever."

"Huh?"

George shifts himself to block the lights. "Paul called me from the loo and said you fuckin' collapsed-"

"Paul?"

"Yeah, an' he's still in there- John's gone in too. But how are _you_ feelin'?"

"Shit."

"I'll bet."

"I... hate Paul."

"Oh, me too," George rolls his eyes. "D'you remember when I, uh, threw up?"

"Yeah."

"Guess _who_ suggested I eat the cookies and lick everythin’ in between.”

"...oh."

George turns his face away. "Worst idea."

"Mmm," Ringo tries reaching for George's cheek. 

"Wasn't it?"

"I dunno." The back of Ringo's hand brushes George's collarbone. "I... always thought ye were pretty."

Eric chuckles. George looks at him again. Ringo then realises that his head is in George's lap. _Son of a-_

"Pretty."

"Pretty _sexy."_

George blinks. Then there it is- a grin. 

"The _fuck's_ takin' John so long?" Eric snaps suddenly.

~

The show is off. Praise the Lord. Praise the spirits of Christmas and all that, Ringo's lying on a bed in some clinic ward, a small wreath with plastic bells on the wall above his head. All the lights are dim. The nurse, an older, paler version of dear Elsie, places pills and a glass of water on the tray in front of him. She tuts at the reading on his thermometer. "Been playing out in the snow, have you?"

"Nothin' of the sort," replies Ringo. "I slept on the floor yesterday."

"Now why'd you do that?" 

"... didn't want ta sleep alone."

"Ah." The nurse wipes the thermometer down. "And you shouldn't. It's Christmas." She checks her watch. "In an hour and a half."

"Oh."

"I'll let those lads in now, shall I?"

Ringo exhales. "Thanks, ma'am."


	12. george and ringo hold hands

 Christmas

 

George gets in to lie beside Ringo after midnight. One of them, they're not sure who, takes the other's hand, but no questions are asked. Eric and his waitress, Melia, leave for the movies. George's thumb traces patterns into Ringo's index. 

"Are you writing something?"

"No," replies George. "Your hand's jus' cold."

"Oh."

"Hah, joke. I'm writing- 'Ritchie, you git, why are ya sick on Christmas'-"

"Oh my god, it's _Christmas."_

"Uh-huh," says George, and he turns to kiss Ringo's temple. "Merry Christmas, Ritch."

Ringo sighs contentedly. "Merry Christmas, Geo."

"I love you."

"...well, hot damn."

George moves back. "What?"

"I love you too."

"Oh."

"This is a fuckin' Christmas miracle."

"Really," George moves back into the hold. "How so?"

"Well, y'know-"

"No I don't."

"Ah ah ah! I jus' haven't said it yet!" Ringo says matter-of-factly, finger up. "We: you an' I, everythin' in between... is a Christmas miracle. But I like to think that it don't matter if it's Christmas or not-" he shifts himself just so, nose to nose, toe to toe "-we're a miracle. Rain or shine or snow or... sand. Aha. Don't ya think."

"Definitely."

"And I, uh, wrote you a song," Ringo mutters, weight finally off his entire body. "I was gonna play it for you after the first gig, but then... John. The bastard. That song was supposed to be a surprise an' all."

"John _is_ a bastard," says George. "He sent me the YouTube link yesterday."

Ringo freezes. 

_"What?"_

"’s the most viewed video on the Cavern's channel."

Hands over face. "I... I can't believe- they _recorded_ it..."

 _"I_ can't believe you hid it from me!" George laughs. " 's a beautiful song."

"I- well fuck, Geo."

George prises Ringo's hands away and kisses him. Soft as the snow outside.

 

~

"MACCAAAAA-"

"SON OF A BITCH, JOHN, BE QUIET," Paul screeches from the clinic cubicle, in midst of birthing the most _painful_ dump EVER. "THIS IS A FUCKIN' HOSPITAL-"

"GEO AND RINGS ARE SNOGGING."

"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!?!?!?!"

"OH MY GOD, I _KNOWWWWW_ _!"_ John squeals. "I walk in, yeah, and Geo's on Ringo's _fuckin'_ gurney, hands in hair, liplocked- oh shit, Paul, you okay in there?"

"YEAH, I'M DOIN' PERFECT!" Paul screams crossly. "WHY'D YOU USE THE SAME TUPPERWARES FOR EVERYTHING? I swear, when I get off- ooooooOOOOOOWWWWWWW-"

"Wha? Tupperware? Wait a minute-"

 _"You,_ " Paul seethes, "are never EVER making cookies again, ya hear?!"

"Awwww. Okay."

"GOOD!"

John chuckles. His feet reach the end of the door, and he blows an audible kiss. "Merry Christmas, Macca."

"FUCK OFF!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! and THANK YOU,,, SO MUCH,,, for all the lovely comments. i got so inspired to write. 
> 
> next up we return to pure wacko-ness, shenanigans, cursing, and yES, there will be starrison. and mclennon! basically, they'll be back in the next huge hot mess. i'm sorry at how sentimental this ended up, but oh well, the beatles were all about love.
> 
> as usual, please do leave a review if you enjoyed! <3
> 
> p.s, I have [tumblr](https://rufusrant.tumblr.com). hmu.


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